The Returning
by Helga Von Nutwimple
Summary: Three years after Buffy's death, the Scoobies have built a strange new life without her... until Giles discovers the real reason their attempt to resurrect Buffy didn't work; someone else beat them to it. AU after Season Five (5x22, "The Gift").
1. Remembering

Prologue  
Sunnydale, California  
  
The riot fires blaze bright against the midnight sky; the piercing sounds of shrieking motorcycle tires and breaking glass assault them from every angle. From the darkness of the graveyard, three figures move in tandem into the orange glare of the streets. Two blonde women; one pale and silent as the moon, seemingly untouched by the carnage around her; the other manic, jittery, her eyes darting from noise to noise, poised for flight.  
  
The man they flank has his arms full of sobbing redhead, her ashen face marked with smeared lines of blood.  
  
"Hospital," the man says. He seems stunned, saddened; he has eyes only for the girl in his arms. "We have to get her to a hospital."  
  
The second blonde draws her coat around her. "I don't think it's safe, Xander. Won't that be one of the first places they loot? With the... blood, and all? Maybe we should just... just take her back to the house?"  
  
"It didn't work," the redhead keens. She has repeated this for the last twenty minutes.  
  
There is another loud crash; a group of demons have overturned a Volkswagen Beetle.  
  
"House, house, I'm definitely thinking house..."  
  
"And I'm thinkin' not," says a voice behind them. They whirl; two more figures have joined them, a young girl and a man in a black leather trenchcoat. It is the man who has spoken; he watches the carnage with a predator's eye.  
  
"They've taken over the street -- an' they've trashed the Bot," he adds. "Ripped her to pieces. I say we make for my crypt. They won't be lookin' for humans in the graveyard."  
  
"It didn't work," the redhead moans.  
  
"What's Red rabbitin' on about?"  
  
The other man sighs. "We'll tell you when we get there."  
  
--------------------  
  
London, England  
Three Years Later  
  
She is hunting.  
  
She can feel them; their presence sends a trickle of cold down the back of her neck, and she clutches the wooden stake tighter in her glove.  
  
She is sleek, like a panther; clad in black vinyl from neck to sturdy shoes. Vinyl is good; it slips through the fingers, it does not give the enemy purchase. Blood washes off it easily. So does dust.  
  
She makes a lot of dust.  
  
She springs on top of a dumpster, her head cocking as she opens her senses to them, a slow smile spreading over her face at the rapid beating of her heart, the thrill of the chase, the thrill of the death. Their death. She is coming for them; the bringer of death to the dead.  
  
She could be beautiful; there is grace and symmetry in the bones of her face. She has no interest in beauty beyond that of the crunch of a blade, the hiss of the last breath. Her blonde hair is shorn to her scalp; hair is a liability. Hair can be grabbed, can be pulled. She scrubs the bloody dust from her body each night, dresses her wounds; these are her only concessions to vanity.  
  
There are three of them. But not for much longer.  
  
She is a blur, a swirl of darkness in the alley, punches and kicks flying. The alleyway swells with the percussion of the pain she deals; within one minute, all three are dust.  
  
She wipes it from her eyes. She does not say a word.  
  
--------------------  
  
Since he came here, he's been seeing her everywhere.  
  
He'd thought Sunnydale haunted by ghosts; he'd thought London would be a refuge... but he thinks he sees her, has seen her, ever since he arrived, flickering in the corners of his vision. She doesn't belong here, even as a ghost; as many times as she's teased him for being British, he can't even imagine her on the island.  
  
Just a random girl, then, a girl with a misfortune of bone structure and green eyes and catlike grace. A grief mirage he'd painted on a stranger.  
  
"Is this your family, then? You don't mention them much."  
  
Giles turns to Melinda, hiding the pain in his smile. It's only a half-lie, isn't it? They are, after all, his family... even if it took quite a bit of maneuvering to make most of them legally so.  
  
"So?" Melinda holds up the framed photograph. "Going to introduce me?"  
  
"Ah, yes." Giles takes the photo, his fingertips tracing over the glass as he tries to remember to do this in a logical order. "Ah, well, the two chemical blondes are my son and daughter, William and Anya."  
  
"William looks a bit of a punk."  
  
"Believe it or not, he calls himself 'Spike'." Giles is shocked at how paternal his soft noise of disgust is. Either he's getting better at this, or the obnoxious undead boy has been growing on him behind his back.  
  
Giles, to his horror, suspects it might be the latter.  
  
He points out faces. "William's wife Tara... Anya's husband Xander... and my granddaughter Dawn."  
  
"And the blonde?"  
  
"The... blonde?"  
  
"In the other pictures."  
  
"Ah. That is William's first wife. She is... deceased."  
  
"You have a lot of pictures of her..."  
  
"She was a... protege of mine. It's how she and William met."  
  
"You loved her a lot. I can tell."  
  
"Buffy was... very special."  
  
Half a bottle of very good whiskey, two hours in the darkness, and Melinda is gone, and a considerably more disheveled Giles pads back into the study, taking the picture in his hand once more. The other hand pours another tumblerful, and Giles sips, remembering.  
  
--------------------  
  
_"Spike!" Dawn shrieks, stretching her hand towards him, as the gurney wheels past doors marked 'No Admittance'.  
  
"Sorry, guy," the orderly says, hand on Spike's chest. "No one but family past this point."  
  
"I'm her brother," Spike lies. "Look, she needs me, she's screamin' for me!"  
  
"Got I.D.?"  
  
"No, I don't bloody have I.D.! I was..."  
  
"Well, sir, you don't 'bloody' sound anything like her brother. Or look like her brother. So unless you have some I.D., you're just going to have to wait out here."  
  
The orderly looks past Spike, "Any of you _actually_ related to her and can prove it?"  
  
The Scoobies exchange unhappy looks.  
  
"Because we're going to need a parent or guardian to sign her forms."_  
  
--------------------  
  
Twenty-seven demons had died that night... necks snapped, hearts ripped out, and Giles rather imagined that every one of them had been wearing the orderly's face in Spike's mind.  
  
The plan had been Dawn's; she'd come downstairs with a little family tree drawn on notebook paper clutched in the hand without the cast, a plan to ensure that all of them had legal rights to all of them.  
  
It hadn't just been Tara who'd looked wistfully at the space on the couch where the redhead ought to be.  
  
In the end, forging the documents had been shockingly easy; Spike had reluctantly placed a call to Angel, and within a day, the power of Wolfram & Hart had won Giles two annoying, demonic, properly papered children.  
  
Other parts had not been so easy.  
  
--------------------  
  
_"Oh, Spike," the BuffyBot gushes, "This is the happiest day of my life!"  
  
"Someone tell me RoboBint has a mute button," Spike growls.  
  
"Um, Spike?" Dawn says gingerly, camera in hand. "You should, um, kiss her. Y'know, for the 'Kiss the Bride' part..."  
  
"Yes, kiss me, Spike! You look so handsome in your tuxedo. I wish I still had arms so that I could wrap them around you!"  
  
Spike growls, takes a deep, unnecessary breath, and kisses the Bot. Dawn's flash turns them white for a moment.  
  
"Oh, Spike! I've missed you so much, and now we'll be together fore..."  
  
The Bot suddenly slumps; Spike has reached beneath her wedding dress and disconnected her from the car battery.  
  
"We could really use some more pictures..." Dawn says.  
  
Spike's voice is rough. "We've got enough."  
  
Spike carries the limbless, lifeless torso of the Bot across the church, jumper cables trailing from beneath the empty skirt of her wedding gown, the clips at their ends bumping against the red carpet of the aisle as they drag. He slams her face-down on the altar, roughly undoing the buttons on the back of the wedding dress. Tara will need it.  
  
"Now, now, Spike, that's no way to treat your new bride," Xander jokes.  
  
When Spike's head whips around, revealing his tear-stained face, Xander does an amazing thing... he shuts up._  
  
--------------------  
  
Giles' eyes widen, his spine tensing; while he does not have his former Slayer's "spidey sense", as she bizarrely called it, he has the human version; the feeling of being watched.  
  
Vampires, he guesses; brand new ones. There is a smell of earth here that does not belong on the city streets... grave dirt.  
  
Giles reaches in his pocket for the stake he is never without.  
  
And suddenly, familiar sounds; punching, kicking, the creak of leather. They move into the light; three of them, attacking one small young woman.  
  
Giles raises his stake... and lowers it again.  
  
The young woman is doing fine, better than fine -- the vamps are dust before a minute can end. She moves like a predator, all business, each blow an intended kill.  
  
Another Slayer? Giles' heart sinks. The existence of another Slayer can mean only one thing -- the Council has finally succeeded in killing Faith. Giles feels a perverse little stab of pride at how many years it took them to do it.  
  
Might as well introduce himself.  
  
"Slayer?" he calls, stepping into the light.  
  
The girl does not turn, continuing to walk away.  
  
"It's all right, dear -- I'm a Watcher. Or, I used to be. For the Slayer before you."  
  
The girl turns. Giles' heart stops.  
  
"Buffy?" he whispers.


	2. Dichotomies

The motorcycle roars to a perfectly angled halt at the edge of the manicured green lawn, and the groundskeeper raises an eyebrow in appreciation.   
  
"Nice bike."  
  
The woman dismounts, removing her helmet, running a hand through her long blonde hair to reanimate it.  
  
"Thank you."  
  
And now the groundskeeper smiles; he is a secret collector of dichotomies, which makes this girl delicious. The massive bike, her tough-looking leather jacket, the precision and grace with which she drives had all led him to a conclusion utterly belied by the face revealed when she pulled the helmet off.  
  
She's beautiful, with wide eyes and full lips, painted in pastels, and there is something achingly gentle about that face, achingly soft about the voice with which she has addressed him. Yet he feels steel within her; _maternal_, that's the word he wants.   
  
Mother Goddess.  
  
Mother Goddess, ridin' a hog.  
  
Yes, he'll save this one.  
  
She tucks the helmet under her arm upside down, placing her keys and a small package into it. She's looking around... no, no, she's _scanning_. A small smile grows on her face, and she sets off in a seemingly random direction, moving with purpose.  
  
Oh, yes. He'll save this one.  
  
-------------------------  
  
"Hey, baby," Tara says quietly.  
  
Willow is on the far edge of the lawn, her back against a tree. The sweater she is wearing seems to swallow her alive; she's shrunk since she came here in more ways than one, her formerly round face all angles.  
  
Tara drops down cross-legged next to her, pulls the little package out of the helmet. "I brought you some chocolate. Would you like it?"  
  
Willow nods, and Tara sets to work... unwrapping the chocolate bar, breaking it down into component squares. This is part of their ritual.  
  
"Fucking him yet?" Willow snarls, her eyes flashing black for a moment.  
  
"Baby... you know I'm not," Tara soothes. This is, unfortunately, also part of their ritual.  
  
"I can smell him all over you."  
  
"I took the bike today, and it's his jacket." Tara hands Willow a square of chocolate, then shrugs out of the leather coat, tossing it a few feet away from them. "Is that better?"  
  
"You will."  
  
"I _won't_."  
  
"You will. I would, if he were mine. I wanted to. Wanted him to bite me, once. Wanted to feel him inside me. You'll want it, too."  
  
This is actually new, and Tara shuts her eyes for a moment. When she has recovered, her voice shows no sign of distress. "Honey, we've been over this a million times. We did this for Dawnie. We're who she picked. It has_ nothing_ to do with my and Spike's relationship and _everything_ to do with our individual relationships to Dawn."  
  
"Don't play dumb. You're not _dumb_." Willow's voice seethes with malice, and Tara stills herself inside. This is not Willow, this is the sickness. This is not Willow, this is the sickness.  
  
"You've already taken him inside. Not physically. Not yet. But he's changing you. I feel it, I _feel_ you. You've given part of yourself to him. You've taken part of him for yourself. But you're mine. Don't ever forget that."  
  
"I never forget that."  
  
"You forget it every day. You bring me _chocolate_," Willow scoffs. "And what have you given him?"  
  
"He _needed_ those things, Willow. He's... he's the Slayer now. He keeps us alive with the things I've given him."  
  
"You give him power beyond reckoning," Willow hisses, shooting Tara a predatory look. "And you won't even let me have a taste."  
  
Tara closes her eyes again. She hates seeing Willow like this, the hatred that fills her, the darkness that burns from her, that makes Tara's skin crawl, makes her want to run away.  
  
Willow's hand strokes Tara's arm. "Give me a taste, baby."  
  
She will not run away.  
  
"No, Willow, I won't let you drain me. But I will -- when you get better."  
  
"Dangle a carrot," Willow chuckles. "I _scare_ you now. I scare the consort of _William the Bloody_."  
  
"_William the Bloody_ loves life as much as death. And when _you_ feel the same way, I can take you home."  
  
"No room for me. All shut out of your little fake family."  
  
Tara sighs. "I came to tell you something."  
  
Willow holds out her hand for another square, and Tara passes it.  
  
-------------------------  
  
_"Buffy?" Giles repeats, his face slack with surprise.  
  
Buffy surveys him cooly. "You are Rupert Giles?"  
  
His second shock of the day; Buffy has a British accent.  
  
"Buffy... dear Lord... what..."  
  
"Are you Rupert Giles?" she insists.  
  
"Of course I am!"  
  
He does not see the fist coming, but he definitely feels it; that, and his head smashing into the side of a dumpster.   
  
When he is back on his feet, she is gone._  
  
-------------------------  
  
"We don't know what she is yet. Giles said she didn't really know him; recognized him, but didn't know him. She moves like a human... he doesn't think she is a zombie."  
  
"Eat brains," Willow giggles. Her mouth is smeared with chocolate now, and it looks like dried blood.  
  
Tara shivers. "Willow, do you understand what I'm saying? Do you understand what this means? It wasn't your fault the spell failed. You couldn't bring her back because _she'd already been brought back_."  
  
"Oh -- so now you think I'm supposed to leap up and be all cured by this revelation?"  
  
Tara hugs her knees. "I guess I'd... kind of hoped for something like that."  
  
"I was wrong. You _are_ dumb." Willow cocks her head, smirking. "Oh... look at your sad little face. This visit's almost over; I can smell when you break. Looks like I've drained you after all, haven't I?"  
  
"Willow..." Tara struggles to keep her composure. "Baby, _please_ don't..."   
  
"Run home, little bird. Run home and let your pet corpse make you hot chocolate with little marshmallows. Run home... so the eater of babies, the rapist of children, the slaughterer of continents can let you cry on his shoulder."   
  
"He's _different_ now."  
  
Willow laughs. "Remorse can't wash the blood off your hands, baby. No one knows that better than me."  
  
"So you don't even _bother_ with it." Tara says flatly.  
  
"What does he call you now? Pet? Love? Wifey? Honey?"  
  
"We're done here," Tara snaps. She puts the rest of the chocolate bar in Willow's lap, rising, walking across the grass to retrieve Spike's jacket.  
  
"You'll never be the witch I was," Willow calls.  
  
Tara looks over her shoulder. "That's true. And I thank the Goddess every day that it is."  
  
-------------------------  
  
The blonde man at the end of the bar intrigues her.  
  
Normally, she does not stay more than fifteen minutes at this particular pub; there are seven on her patrol route, and traffic is usually light here.   
  
For him, however, she has stayed.  
  
She has ordered a beer, which she will not drink; alcohol slows the reaction time. However, it gives her an excuse to take a booth and watch the man. If he is, indeed, a man.  
  
He has the accent of a local, but he is new; she's positive he was never in here until yesterday. She'd remember him; he scrambles her radar. This is new and memorable.  
  
Her senses tell her _vampire_, and yet...  
  
He wears a cross around his neck, the pendant resting just beneath the pale hollow where his collarbones meet. It appears to cause him no pain; there is no sizzling, no smoke.  
  
So -- not a vampire.  
  
And yet, what lies _behind_ the cross gives her pause; a brand, seared into his skin, in the exact shape of the pendant. This cross was burned into his flesh -- and it takes _a lot_ to scar a vampire.  
  
Well... one easy way to tell for sure.   
  
She snags an empty shot glass off a nearby table, moving into the shadows to fill it to the brim from her small bottle of holy water.  
  
She makes her way towards him, shot glass in hand, putting a touch of stumble in her step. Let him underestimate her; it will just make the killing easier, if he is what she suspects he is.  
  
When she is near enough, she trips on nothing, falling forward; they collide, her 'drink' splashing all over him. He grabs her by the biceps, steadies her. Their eyes meet; for a single moment, he gazes at her as if she is a treasure beyond price.   
  
Interesting.  
  
That look is quickly replaced with a predatory, appraising glance. Whatever she was to him a moment before, she is now just a blonde in a bar.  
  
"You alright, pet? Took a bit of a tumble there..."  
  
"I'm fine," she replies, and notes that her words have startled him for some reason. He hides his shock quickly.   
  
Also interesting.   
  
Now that he is touching her, the screams of 'VAMPIRE!' in her head are stronger than ever... yet the holy water did not affect him at all. She watches as he licks a drop of it off his hand, leering at her.  
  
"Buy you another drink, love? Since I'm wearin' yours...?"  
  
She places her hand on his chest. She feels no heartbeat beneath her palm.  
  
"Unless, of course..." he drawls in a low, silky voice, covering her hand with his own, "You'd rather get out of here..."  
  
She looks pointedly at his ring, noting that his hand around hers is barely lukewarm. "You are married."  
  
"Indeed I am, sweetheart." He smirks at her, raising an eyebrow. "Does that bother you?"  
  
She casts her eyes around the pub. It would be better, easier, to kill him outside.  
  
"It does not bother me."  
  
As he pulls her towards the exit, she scans him, searching for information. He is an unknown. She does not like the unknown. Known enemies allow for efficient choice of weapon, of attack.  
  
No crosses, no holy water... but no heartbeat, no body heat. Perhaps not a vampire, but still something that requires second death. He is wiry rather than bulky, and that kind is usually more dangerous. He moves like a dancer, moves like she moves; this might actually be a good fight. Favoring his left hand. She makes mental notes of these things.  
  
Still... better to clear up what he is before she kills him. He strikes her as a talker.  
  
"You have an unusual scar." She gestures towards his chest.  
  
His eyes flick downward. "Ah, yes."  
  
"How did you receive it?"  
  
"Fell in love with a bird," he says huskily. "Cross is hers. Been wearin' it since she died."  
  
"And this cross... it burned you?"  
  
"Yeah."  
  
She smiles; he has been classified. "That must have been painful."  
  
"Sort of the point, really." He swings the door open, holds it for her.  
  
She turns to face him in the alleyway. "So you _are_ a vampire."  
  
"Right in one, love." He bows gracefully, his leather coat spreading like bat's wings. "William the Bloody; pleased to make your acquaintance."  
  
"William the Bloody." Her mouth falls open slightly. "The Slayer of Slayers."  
  
"My reputation precedes me." He seems quite pleased. "Get out your pointy stick, pet. Let's dance."  
  
Five seconds later, he is up against a stone wall with a stake through his heart and an even wider grin on his face. He reaches down, pulling the stake out, twirling it insolently between his fingers.  
  
"You missed," he chuckles. "Oh no, wait... you didn't."  
  
She stakes him again.  
  
"What's this? No fancy flips? No peppy little puns?" the vampire sighs, removing the second stake. "C'mon, Slayer. This isn't how we play... come out and play with me."  
  
She answers him with a third stake to the heart. He groans long-sufferingly.  
  
"Now... that _does_ sting a bit, you know, so I think I've officially gotten enough information for daddykins."   
  
She lunges for him, but he grabs her wrist.  
  
"Pet, I'm bored now. Take a nap."  
  
He whirls her, slamming her back against his body, and the chloroform rag is over her mouth just as she gasps for breath.  
  
Her world fades to black; she does not see how quickly his violence and smirk fades to tenderness and a look of wonder, does not see him gently lift her into his arms and carry her towards the waiting car.  
  
-------------------------  
  
She hears their voices before she can see them.  
  
"Bloody _hell_, Pops, the soddin' _Bot_ had more personality. I thought she'd perk up a bit once we started scrappin', but there's no Buffy in there. What is she, some kind of zombie?"  
  
"I'm not certain, Spike, but the fact remains that she's a Slayer and she's dangerous. And you say she recognized you by name, but not on sight?"  
  
"She knew who William the Bloody was, called me 'Slayer of Slayers'. Which is growin' on me. Might get me a tattoo. Somethin' classy."  
  
"Can't believe I thought getting a soul would improve you."  
  
"If you thought I'd turn into _Peaches_, sorry to disappoint. Besides, can't ever have too many cool, threatening nicknames, can ya, Ripper?"  
  
"Spike..." the other man heaved a heavy sigh. "As charming as it always is to watch you sublimate your rage and grief into utter obnoxiousness, I need you serious for a moment. And pass me that bottle."  
  
Their blurred forms clear a bit; the blonde vampire hands a bottle of brown liquid to the older man, who raises it to his lips, drinking deeply.  
  
"See, this is why I never _had_ friends before," the blonde says softly. "Get to know you too well."  
  
"Yes, it is an unfortunate side-effect. I would imagine your sparkling personality ought to prevent you from being saddled with too many more, though."  
  
The blonde lights a cigarette, sighs. "What the hell'd they do to her, Watcher?"  
  
"One of a million unanswered questions, Spike. And she seems to be awake... perhaps the answers will come."  
  
The man -- she can see now that it is Rupert Giles -- passes the bottle back and approaches her, pulling up a chair. William the Bloody -- who Rupert Giles has called _Spike_ -- does the same, but straddles his backwards.  
  
Working together. She files this. The Council will be very interested.  
  
"Buffy," Rupert Giles begins.  
  
She does not answer; she begins examining the ropes they have tied her with.  
  
"Is your name Buffy?" William the Bloody -- _Spike_ -- asks gently.  
  
"I am not to speak to Rupert Giles," she replies.  
  
The two men share a look.  
  
"And why, exactly, is that?"  
  
"You are corrupted."  
  
"Well, _I'm_ not Rupert Giles," Spike says, his cigarette dangling from his lips. "As you could no doubt deduce by my stunnin' good looks. Allowed to talk to _me_ then, love?"  
  
"You should be dead," she replies.  
  
"_Am_ dead, Pet. But if you mean your little pointy stick problem, well... my wife has lovely taste in jewellery."  
  
"I don't think it's wise to share that with her, Spike..."  
  
Spike lets out a snort of frustration. "Hypnotize her or somethin', Rupes, do one of your little truth spells, take a little vision quest in her noggin like Red did. Maybe they've just got her brainwashed... she's certainly sportin' the G.I. Jane look. I keep waitin' for her to spout out her name, rank, n' serial."  
  
"You watch entirely too much television, Spike. We need time..."  
  
"We haven't _got_ time. I need to get back to Sunny D. I'm sure the various n' sundry denizens are quakin' in their boots for fear of _Xander_. God knows what's happenin' on the Hellmouth while I'm over here bein' your undead Slayer-bait."  
  
Giles stands. "I'll gather the ingredients for a truth spell. Keep an eye on her."  
  
Spike watches him go, crossing his arms across the chair back and leaning his chin on them. "Guess it's just you and me, pet."  
  
"You'll be dust when I'm through with you," she growls.  
  
He closes his eyes, lowers his head, bites his lip against a smile. "Say it again." 


	3. Blood Is The Life

The air is heavy and humid with rising steam, opened cans littering the island in the center of the kitchen, saucepans sputtering beneath their lids, and Tara is a blur among them, barely registering the sound of Dawn's backpack thudding to the ground.  
  
"Visit with Willow sucked, huh?" Dawn says sympathetically.  
  
"Huh?" Wisps of escaped hair from Tara's ponytail are plastered to her cheeks from the steam.  
  
"Y'know, you always go on cooking binges when you're upset." Dawn reaches for Tara's face. "Hold still, you're wearing some parsley."  
  
Tara closes her eyes as Dawn removes it from her eyebrow. "T-thank you."  
  
"So I figure either we're having fourteen people over, or your visit with Willow did some _major_ suckage." Dawn surveys the preparations. "Is this an almost-ready thing, or a will-be-another-hour, go-ahead-and-eat-some-pretzels thing?"  
  
"It's a go-ahead-and-eat-some-pretzels thing," Tara smiles weakly, lifting the lid from a pot to stir it.  
  
Dawn grabs the pretzel bag off the top of the fridge. "So, for the _third_ time... how was Willow?"  
  
"You were right the first time," Tara sighs. "It sucked."  
  
"Sucked in that she was all black-eyed and scary, sucked in that she was mean to you, or sucked in that she went all thermonuclear over Spike again?"  
  
"A-all three."  
  
"Damn," Dawn sighs. "Wanna pretzel?"  
  
"That's okay, Dawnie. But thanks."  
  
"So... what's the big secret you guys are all hiding from me?"  
  
Tara drops her spoon.  
  
"Oh _please_, Tara. Giles calls, Spike drops everything and runs off to jolly old England, and nothing's going on? Spill."  
  
"I-I was kind of hoping to do this during dinner..."  
  
"Trying to lull me into complacency with carbohydrates? Not gonna work. Start talking."  
  
"Giles has..." Tara breaks off, sighing. "Giles found someone in England who looks exactly like Buffy."  
  
Dawn freezes, blinks... then forces casual humor into her voice. "What, like _Parent Trap_?"  
  
"Actually, a-a lot like _Parent Trap_. She has, um, a British accent... and she doesn't know any of us. And... she's a Slayer. Giles tried to talk to her, and she knocked him out."  
  
"And that's why Spike went over there?"  
  
"Basically. Being a vampire, y'know, she'd come to him. So he was sort of the bait _and_ the trap. It worked, too. They've caught her."  
  
"So, does Giles know what's going on? Shape-shifting demon, glamour spell or something?"  
  
"Actually, Dawnie..." Tara pokes the sauce unhappily. "Giles thinks... Giles thinks she _is_ Buffy."  
  
Dawn pales. "That's impossible."  
  
"Well, you know that spell Willow did..."  
  
"How could I forget," Dawn snarls.  
  
"All I know is what Spike told me, Dawnie."  
  
"He called today?"  
  
"He did."  
  
----------------------------------  
  
The circle is complete, and Giles tucks the spout back into the box of kosher salt, surveying his work. Behind him, the rumple of cellophane; Spike is unwrapping another packet of cigarettes.  
  
Giles wonders if Spike realizes that he's on his fifth pack today.  
  
Moreover, Giles is really thinking about asking him for one.  
  
He hears the metallic rasp of the zippo, and isn't really all that shocked when Spike passes him the cigarette he's lit.  
  
He stares at it a moment, inhales. "Before we begin this... you're certain...?"  
  
Spike meets Giles' gaze without raising his head, lips pursed. "She's human. And she's Buffy. Or her body is. I... I'd know."  
  
"You're sure?"  
  
"She's Buffy, all right? She bathes with plain soap now, Dettol by the smell of it, uses some kind of shampoo that smells like bloody road tar and deodorant that's all baby powdery. She's got three healin' wounds with mercurochrome on 'em, an' we should probably feed her soon, 'cause all she's had to eat today is a cuppa Typhoo and pot noodles."  
  
"Good lord. I don't know whether to be impressed or utterly revolted."  
  
"Yeah," Spike drawls, taking a drag. "I have that effect on people."  
  
"I suppose we should proceed, then..."  
  
Spike hauls the book into his lap, cigarette bouncing between his lips as he reads the words... and the crystal in Giles' hands begins to glow a soft, radiant pink that is reflected in the pupils of Buffy's eyes.  
  
"What is your name?" Giles asks.  
  
"Mairya."  
  
"What is your quest?" Spike interjects.  
  
Giles whirls. "_Not_ funny, Spike."  
  
Buffy is not fazed. "I kill vampires. I am the Vampire Slayer."  
  
"Aw, c'mon, Giles, she just told us she's named after the bloody Angel of Death, I thought a little levity was needed. Tell us, Pet, what's your favorite color?"  
  
"Spike, if the next words out of your mouth are 'what is the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow', I'll rip that little ring right off and feed you to her."  
  
"My favorite color is red. I do not know the air-speed velocity of an unladen swallow."  
  
Giles shoots Spike a glare, turning back to Buffy. "And what was your name... before it was Mairya?"  
  
"It has always been Mairya. When a Slayer is called, she forgets the life she knew before. This is the way of the Slayer. No liabilities."  
  
Giles and Spike exchange shocked looks.   
  
"And... who told you that?" Giles prods.  
  
"The Council. They are my Watchers."  
  
"Easy, Ripper," Spike says quietly, seeing the fury blossom on Giles' face. "I'm the impulsive, violent one, remember?"  
  
"I think you'll find that, situation dependent, we have quite a bit more in common in that area than you'd suspect," Giles replies.  
  
"Look," Spike sighs, "Mairya, right?"  
  
"Correct."  
  
"When were you called to be the Slayer?"  
  
"The summer of 2001. I am not sure of the exact date."  
  
Spike tips his head. "Why's that, Pet?"  
  
"There were no means of marking time where I was."  
  
"And that would be...?"  
  
"Being trained. To be the Slayer. I was weak, and knowledgeless. They made me what I am."  
  
"That right," Spike mutters, yellow flashing in his eyes... and it's Giles' turn to lay a restraining hand on his arm.  
  
"Do you know who Buffy Summers is?" Giles asks.  
  
"She was the Slayer before me. Disobedient. Willful. It got her killed. I won't be making the same mistakes."  
  
Spike and Giles growl in stereo; for a moment, there is actually a family resemblance.  
  
"And Faith?"  
  
"The rogue slayer, a corruption of the line, spawned from Summers' disobedience."  
  
"Why aren't you allowed to speak to me, Mairya?"  
  
"You were instrumental in the corruption of the last Slayer. You encouraged her to acquire liabilities. You would seek to lead me down the same path."  
  
Spike pushes himself off the desk, headed for the other room.  
  
"Mairya... what's the first thing you remember?"  
  
"I was lying on a table. It was cold. I was naked. The birth of all Slayers."  
  
"That is not the way most Slayers come to be."  
  
Buffy cocks her head. "They told me you would lie."  
  
Spike returns with the framed photograph, thrusting it in front of Buffy's face. "Recognize any of these folks, then?"  
  
She studies it dispassionately. "I recognize you both."  
  
"Nobody else?" Spike taps Dawn's face. "What about her, pet? Bit o' family resemblance there, wouldn't you say?"  
  
"I do not recall my family. It is not the way of the Slayer to do so."  
  
"Her name is Dawn," Spike's rage shakes him from the inside, his voice quiet and deadly. "Her name is _Dawn_, and she cries herself to sleep at night because of you, missin' you, needin' you..."  
  
"Spike..." Giles warns.  
  
"She has nightmares. They never stop. Nightmares of watchin' you fall."  
  
Giles takes him by the shoulder, leads him out of the room. "Spike. This isn't helping."  
  
"Oh? And what do you suggest we do instead?"  
  
"Get her home, amongst familiar surroundings, things that will jar her memory. Perhaps Tara can help in a more advanced magical sense. But it is certain the Council will be looking for her. We need to leave as soon as possible. I'll call and book tickets."  
  
"What, we're gonna take her on the plane all tied up? Bit kinky to pass customs."  
  
"No. We need her subdued, weakened, but conscious. Able to pass for ill, or possibly airsick."  
  
"Gonna dose her up, then?"  
  
"I lack the supplies. However... I believe that is a state you know how to induce."  
  
Spike's face loses what little color it had. "Bloody hell, Rupes, you're not seriously suggestin'..."  
  
"We're out of time and options. You spent a century as William the Bloody, Spike. Put that information to good use."  
  
"You know that..."  
  
"I'm aware. I'll see to the flights in the other room. Drain her."  
  
"Rupes..." Spike's voice is strangled.  
  
Giles turns in the doorway, a slight smile on his face. "I trust you, Spike."  
  
----------------------------------  
  
Tara unbuttons her shirt slowly, her fingers fumbling, utterly drained.  
  
The shirt is wet with Dawn's tears, tears that Tara knows aren't over; she can hear Dawn in the next room, crying herself to sleep.  
  
Tara has offered what generic comfort she can; the rest will have to come from Spike. Tara can soothe, but only Spike will truly understand; Tara liked Buffy well enough, considered her a friend, but... her feelings in no way compared.  
  
And if Dawn knew what Tara was thinking now, she would hate her.  
  
Of that, Tara was certain.  
  
Clothing in the hamper, Tara steps into the tub, letting the heat of the water surround her... one of many goodbyes.  
  
This isn't her bathtub. This isn't her home. She is not Dawn's real mother, she is not who Spike loves. For years, she has built a life; a strange life, an unplanned life, sometimes an incredibly painful life... but a life regardless, and not without joy.   
  
One transatlantic phone call later, and Tara is a placeholder, a seat-warmer, the usurper of the spot Buffy rightly occupies.   
  
Sitting in the spot that Buffy is coming home to claim, that everyone will be overjoyed to see her in.  
  
And Tara will pack, and quietly slip away.  
  
Because that is what she does.  
  
Tonight, just tonight, she will let herself mourn. Tomorrow, she will be strong, will plaster on a wide smile, greet Buffy with open arms, will look for apartments, give Spike back his ring.  
  
No more nights of hot chocolate and bad movies; no more giggling to herself at the sound of Spike singing in the shower, no more of Dawn's hideous food "inventions" that she and Spike suffer through with wide smiles, feigned fullness and shared plates of spicy buffalo wings after Dawn has gone to bed.  
  
No more lazy Saturday mornings sprawled across the couch watching cartoons, her head on Spike's thigh, his fingers sliding through her hair while Dawn giggles helplessly at the screen; no more of Dawn's gazillion-calorie cookie dough milkshakes, no more early morning sunrises watched with Spike, observing his face as the colors painted it, a look of utmost wonder in his eyes.  
  
No more of the sneak two-women attacks that had occurred at regular intervals once they'd learned that Spike was ticklish. No more rubbing bleach into Spike's hair as he bent, towel around his neck, over the kitchen sink; no more propping her feet on his lap, him painting her toenails with concentration so intense that his tongue stuck out between his teeth, like Miss Kitty Fantastico.  
  
No more drying the dishes while Spike and Dawn bent together over Dawn's homework on the kitchen island, Spike teaching her some aspect of history in the gruesome, gory, perverse way that only he could.  
  
She hadn't been building a life... she'd been playing house. Playing house with Buffy's toys, and playtime was over. It was time to go home.  
  
_Home to what, exactly?_ her mind whimpered.  
  
Her real family, who hated her, who thought she was a freak, a demon? Her lover, a hateful shell of her former self, gutted and twisted by black magic?   
  
_Maybe Spike...  
  
_Oh, don't kid yourself, Tara.  
  
Sure, Buffy hadn't wanted him before. She'd want him now, it was inevitable. Tara had sensed the chemistry from the first moment she'd seen them interact, and all Buffy's objections to him had burnt away in her absence.  
  
He was a full-fledged Scooby now, earning the respect of even Xander. No one could doubt his white hatdom, not after everything he'd done, and he had a soul; Angel, without that pesky little happiness clause... and with the Gem, without that pesky sunlight and cross allergy. With the exception of baby-making, which Buffy had never seemed that keen on anyway, and his beverage of choice, Spike could give Buffy an utterly normal life.  
  
And it was all because of Tara. It wouldn't hurt to wallow in that for a moment, would it?  
  
She'd restored his soul, removed his chip, crafted the replacement Gem of Amarra that twinkled in his wedding ring. She'd been unable to do magic for almost a year afterwards, she'd been so drained, and what Spike still didn't know was, the matrix of the Gem was blood.  
  
Human blood, freely given.  
  
Her blood.  
  
She'd owed him, though. The Gem had been her idea, something she'd researched, outside of the original deal Giles had struck with Spike; chip out for soul in.   
  
She still remembers the night she gave it to him, remembers the walk down the basement stairs, the horrible bloody pulp he'd still been from what Willow had done to him, the way his eyes had been too swollen shut to look at her, the way he'd been too weak to even sit up.  
  
Remembers sliding it onto his finger, how the lumpy purple mess of his face had melted back into its normal form, the gaping wounds knitting, his eyes meeting hers in astonishment, and they'd been so blue, so very blue and full of wonder, and his smile had been...  
  
She didn't have words for that.  
  
And Spike had saved them all a million times, stepping into Buffy's place even before Tara had come up with ways to protect him, driving back the demons, stopping the chaos. They'd all be dead if it weren't for him; there wasn't any doubting that.  
  
So... it had been worth it. Very worth it. But just for tonight, she was allowed to sulk about it.  
  
It wasn't as if she _loved _Spike or anything. No-no-no, and also no, with a side order of no. He'd grown on her, yeah... snuck up on her, turned into the best friend she'd ever had, the first person she craved when she was upset, a comfort to her.   
  
If he were a woman... a woman _that_ gorgeous, _that_ funny, _that_ exotic, intoxicating combination of depraved and sensitive and wild and tender and passionate and silly and violent and goofy and protective and crazed and wicked and smirky and sarcastic and constantly cranked up to eleven with a lust for life that was pretty weird on a dead guy... well then maybe she'd have had a little crush.  
  
On him, not so much.  
  
But Buffy would. She'd be insane, blind, an idiot, not to. What straight woman could possibly resist him? Buffy would claim her rightful place by Spike's side, and that was fine, that was right, because Tara belongs to Willow and always will.  
  
She belongs to Willow.  
  
She belongs to Willow.  
  
Tara brushes aside the tears that stream down her cheeks, and wishes with all her being that Spike were home.  
  
----------------------------------  
  
_"I trust you, Spike."_  
  
Spike stands, sucker-punched, gasping for air he doesn't really need, the weight of the Watcher's words filling him, warming him...  
  
Utterly terrifying him.  
  
His soul is screaming, telling him he doesn't deserve this, wants him to run into the other room, tell Giles the million and one reasons he shouldn't be allowed to do this.  
  
His demon is bellowing in lust.  
  
This is Buffy. Giles trusts him to do this to _Buffy_. Spike may be Giles' child on paper, but Buffy is his daughter in every way but blood.

Oh, God.   
  
Blood.  
  
The mere thought makes Spike close his eyes, cling desperately to self-control.  
  
He walks back into the study. She glares at him defiantly, and he is struck at the reversal of their positions... tied to a chair in Giles' rented flat, all helpless attitude.  
  
This can be pleasant, of course, much better than pleasant, if the recipient is willing... and he's dreamed of doing it to her, listening to her gasp and writhe in his arms as the pleasure of it surges through her, giving herself to him in the most fundamental way imaginable.  
  
This is rather more like his old fantasies, the ones before the chip, before the love for her that was more debilitating than the chip ever was. In those fantasies, she screams, thrashes, curses him... then clings to him against her will, admitting his power over her, admitting the way she made him feel...  
  
Eh, so Dru had a point, maybe he'd always had a bit of a thing for her.  
  
But he doesn't want to hurt her, scare her, any more. Watching her die took something from him, took something that a century of pains couldn't. If he had Dru's thrall, he'd use it... but he doesn't. All he can do to make this better for her is to do it quickly.  
  
Spike takes a deep breath, steadying himself.  
  
Beneath the Dettol, the mercurochrome, that rancid shampoo... he can smell her, the essence of Buffy, a scent that calls to both man and demon... and beneath even that, the rich, coppery smell of sweet, fresh blood. Slayer blood.  
  
He hasn't fed on a human in years.  
  
He hasn't fed on a Slayer in a century.  
  
This will be a test of willpower like none he's ever experienced.  
  
She's wearing some kind of vinyl Catwoman getup that completely covers every pulse point. Probably a smart thing. But it means he's gonna have to... bloody hell.

Do it fast, Spike. Get the bad part over with.  
  
He studies her one last time, gets his marks, makes his plans.  
  
And his eyes turn amber.  
  
She screams as he rushes her, the scream rising to a high-pitched shriek as his fangs slice neatly through the neck of the bodysuit, one efficient slash, his hands peeling it back from her shoulder.  
  
And there it is, his blood boiling at the sight of it.  
  
The scar from three other vampires, the mark they've left on her, the possession that bloody ponce Angelus left on her, with his teasing and his torture and his filthy hands on Dru, his filthy hands on her...  
  
She will be marked by Angelus no more.  
  
His demon howls in possession, and Spike sinks his fangs into the scar, feeling the tougher tissue pop beneath his teeth... and then it flows, the first trickle crossing his tongue and oh God it's so good, it's what he's needed, what he's been missing, and even his soul can't scream in the face of this much pure pleasure, this much pure life and the Slayerness of her and oh, everything, every color at once, every sensation at once...  
  
And Buffy is moaning, her head now bending back of her own will, her body pressing towards his, struggling against her bonds for a completely different reason.  
  
His fingers fumble down the chair arm, tugging at the ropes, releasing her wrist, and her hand rises to curl into his hair, pressing him harder against her, gasping.  
  
"Spike," she breathes, and there is everything in the way she says his name that he's ever wanted to hear, and he knows it isn't real, no more real than the Bot, but he doesn't care, his throat working as he swallows sweet, rich, warm gulps of her, every part of his body seeming to fill, to glow, to pulse in time to her heart beat, like he had one of his own.  
  
He frees her other hand and she winds it around his neck, sliding down the chair to be closer to him, and he lifts her up, still drinking, as she wraps her legs around him, grinding herself into him, and oh God it's too much, the blood and the lust and the her, where he's always wanted her, where he's never had her, and he lays her down on the desk, covering her with him as she arches beneath him, her hands fluttering over him, pulling him down, she's... oh, God, she's trying to unbutton his shirt...  
  
_Let her.  
_  
No.  
  
_Take her._  
  
NO!  
  
He grabs her hands from him, slamming them into the desk above her head, holding them down, and this just makes her moan louder, press herself against him more ferociously.  
  
_So he didn't lie to Xander._  
  
Oh God don't think about that don't think about that don't think about the way she's rubbing herself against you, the way her breath is fire on your ear, don't let this turn into something else, you have a job to do, a purpose, and you have to stop soon, have to give up the heat and the life and the meaning to your existence, the purpose of your kind, her essence flowing in you, the throb of her life in your veins...  
  
She stops her frantic arching, her moans growing quieter, and he hears her heart slow, feels her muscles relax. He claws into the bloodlust to retrieve his rational mind, quieting the demon roaring for release. He is counting her pulse; focusing on the cold weight of the numbers; she is very close now.  
  
He has sworn to care for her, sworn to protect her, sworn for himself and for Dawn. He calls Dawn's face to mind, holds her there, his little Bit... he has to stop...  
  
_hehastostophehastostophehastostophehastostophehastostophehastostop...  
  
_Spike pushes at his wedding ring with his thumb, sending it off his finger, skittering across the desk. He raises his hand, grabbing the cross pendant that dangles between them, presses it to his flesh.  
  
And it burns, pain slicing through his mind, demon receding, the pain bringing focus, bringing clarity.  
  
And when Buffy's pulse is slow enough, he withdraws his fangs, running his tongue slowly over the wound to seal it... and pushes himself off of her. He is gasping, hyperventilating, his eyes rolled back, shaking uncontrollably, his chest smoking.  
  
"Giles!" he bellows, tearing himself away, nearly flinging himself towards the bathroom, slamming the door and locking it before falling to the tile, curling in the fetal position.  
  
----------------------------------  
  
_He took it off.  
  
_Tara bolts upright in the bathtub, sending bubbles sloshing everywhere.  
  
She doesn't know how she knows; she can only guess there was more of her in the Gem than she'd suspected, and her heart hurts, literally hurts, like it had just been slashed.  
  
This has never happened before. Which means he's never taken it off before. Has someone taken it from him, staked him, hurt him? Would she know if that happened?  
  
Of course, he is with Buffy. And it is his wedding ring.  
  
There are other reasons to take your wedding ring off.  
  
And Tara waits, frozen in place, the water chilling around her.  
  
----------------------------------  
  
"Spike, I've gotten us on a flight in an hour. Are you all right?"  
  
Spike groans.  
  
"Are you hurt?"  
  
"Rupes?" Spike calls weakly. "Ever had blue balls?"  
  
"Ah... well... yes, certainly..."  
  
"Multiply that by a million, mate."  
  
"Well, I... I can empathize with that predicament, Spike, but we should get to the airport."  
  
"I shouldn't be near her," Spike moans. "Should take a different flight..."  
  
"That's not an option, Spike. You had the will to stop, you have the will for this."  
  
"Bloody hell, Watcher. Don't know what you're bloody askin'."  
  
"Spike?"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"I'm quite... I'm quite proud of you, you know."  
  
Face pressed to the clammy cold of the bathroom floor, smoke still rising from his chest, Spike smiles.  
  
----------------------------------  
  
She is drying herself when he puts it back on.  
  
She closes her eyes, says a little prayer of thanks to the Goddess. He is safe, then; alive.   
  
"Twenty minutes, Spike?" she says aloud, wrapping the towel around her head. "Not very impressive, honey."  
  
That was _teasing_ in her voice, she tells herself. Amused sarcasm.  
  
Not jealousy. She has no reason for jealousy.  
  
And she's not wondering which finger he's replaced it on, either.  
  
----------------------------------  
  
Spike feels the eyes on him, turning his head away from the small oval window.  
  
Clouds. Never gets tired of lookin' at 'em.   
  
He raises an eyebrow. "Wotcher starin' at then, Rupes?"  
  
"It's most remarkable," Giles says, peering at Spike's face. "You look _younger_. I hadn't even really noticed you'd been aging. I never really realized you _could_."  
  
"Blood is the life," Spike sighs, draining a tiny liquor bottle. "We can survive on dead blood, animal blood, but it's not what we need, not really. Bit like humans in that respect. Can survive on empty calories, but they need vitamins and whatnot. How bad did I look before, eh? Not like I can check m'self out in a mirror, innit?"  
  
"Spike... will you be all right?"  
  
"You're asking me... can I go back on methadone after a big slug o' heroin?"  
  
"In a manner of speaking, I suppose."  
  
Spike casts a sidelong look at Buffy, who reclines, dazed, in her seat. "Might be a fine idea not to shake the needle in my face for a few days."  
  
"Well, Buffy will be staying with me at first. I was a bit more worried about Tara."  
  
"Bloody hell, Rupes, I'm not gonna bite her!"  
  
"That wasn't exactly what I meant."  
  
"What didya mean, then?"  
  
Giles sighs, removing his glasses to polish them. "I merely meant..."  
  
"Mom?" Buffy sighs in her sleep, her head jerking against the seat rest. "Mom, I'm really cold... I want Mr. Gordo..."  
  
And the two men freeze, staring at each other, hope dawning.


	4. Complicated

"Never seen you hunt with _that_ weapon before."  
  
Spike hefts the shovel a little higher on his shoulder, turning around to glare. "Need a refresh course at Stalker School, Peaches. Known you were behind me for the last fifteen."  
  
"I can smell it." Angel's voice is shaking as he moves out of the shadows. "Did you kill her?"  
  
"Drained her for the flight is all. Thought you knew new n' improved me better than that."  
  
Angel winces. "And how'd that go?"  
  
"Got a big fat happy, turned into Spikeulus, ate the Watcher's liver with fava beans and a nice Chianti. Are we done here?"  
  
"You didn't have to do this tonight."  
  
Spike merely stares at him.  
  
Angel sighs. "At least let me help."  
  
They walk side-by-side for a few minutes, past headstones and mausoleums, their boots on the ground and the creak of the leather they both wear the only sounds.  
  
"How in the hell did we get here, huh?" Angel sighs.  
  
Spike quirks an eyebrow. "Which century you wantin' to start in, then?"  
  
"You know what I mean. After everything we've been through... to be here... doing this..."  
  
"Oh, and I was so _hopin'_ you'd be in a philosophical mood..."  
  
"C'mon, Spike. You have a _soul_ now. Don't tell me it doesn't eat you up inside."  
  
"Mate... I don't have _time_ for it to eat me up inside. Where does all your broodin' get you, Peaches? Doesn't bring anyone back, can't change anythin'. Y'know what does change stuff?"  
  
"What?"  
  
"This." In the blink of an eye, Spike takes a stake from his pocket and hurls it into the night. There is a scream, and a fall of dust.  
  
"So instead of feeling remorse for everything you've killed, you kill more things."  
  
Spike shrugs. "Pretty much, yeah. Different color hats, though."  
  
"Always were a bit simple, Willy," Angel sighs, and Spike almost smiles at the tiny trace of Irish accent that has crept back in.  
  
"And you always had to make things complicated, Liam."  
  
They stop in front of the tombstone, sighing in stereo. Angel traces her name in the stone.  
  
"Less broodin', Peaches," Spike whispers, lowering the shovel from his shoulder. "More diggin'."  
  
---------------------------------------  
  
Giles sags rather than leans against the doorframe, and Angel's eyes fall on the tumbler clutched loosely in the ex-Watcher's hand, the rumpled state of his clothing, the slightly glassy look in his eyes.  
  
"Good evening, Giles," Angel says stiffly. Giles has always made him a little uncomfortable... even sober, even back when Angel could look at him without the dark, tormenting eyes of Jenny Calendar dancing all around his head.  
  
"What did you find out?" Giles turns from Angel, waving him in with an arm. "I assume you accompanied Spike on his... errand."  
  
"The coffin was empty. And has been for a long time."  
  
Giles winces, pinching the bridge of his nose. "As I suspected."  
  
"You let Spike drain Buffy." Angel cannot keep the low rumble of rage out of his voice.  
  
Giles meets Angel's eyes. "I trust _Spike_ implicitly."  
  
And oh, that slight accent on the word, that tiniest of pauses; Angel takes this for the slap in the face it was meant to be.  
  
"Right. He has a _soul_ now."  
  
"And you would be amazed at the amount of selfless good he managed to do without one."  
  
Giles might have been discussing the weather, so light and casual is his tone; but it is Ripper's eyes that stare out of Giles' face, a knife's edge away from violence.  
  
For a second, he looks so like Spike he takes Angel's breath away.  
  
"Of course, I rather suppose _Angelus_ would be properly disgusted," Giles can't resist adding.  
  
"Wouldn't know," Angel purrs, the tiniest fleck of gold rising to his eyes. "We don't communicate much."  
  
Giles turns away, heading for the kitchen, but Angel's vampiric hearing picks up his muttered words anyway: "I rather doubt that."  
  
"Look," Angel tries. "I didn't come here to fight with you. I just... came to tell you about the coffin, and I... Giles, there's something I think you need to know."  
  
"Oh?" Giles stops mid-refill. "And what is that?"  
  
"I know Spike better than pretty much anyone. And I'm pretty good at reading his emotions."  
  
Giles waits, eyebrows raised, expectantly.  
  
Angel swallows hard. "I... I think he's in love with Buffy."  
  
And now Giles laughs, throwing his head back, slamming the whiskey bottle down on the table, laughs so hard tears come to his eyes, laughs so hard he has to remove his glasses, his shoulders vibrating, his head shaking back and forth.  
  
"Angel," Giles hiccups, "My heartfelt thanks for shining a floodlight onto that hidden mystery."  
  
"You already knew." Angel's hands curl into fists.  
  
A mischevious glint begins to burn in Giles' pupils. "Oh, I daresay _everyone_ in _Buffy's circle_ knew. Towards the end, Buffy and Spike were... practically inseparable. _What_ did she say? Ah, _yes_. I believe she said that he was the only one with a chance of protecting Dawn."  
  
"_The only one_...?"  
  
"Well, he was so very close to the family, after all. When there was peril, Buffy would send Joyce and Dawn to Spike's crypt for protection. Joyce fair adored the boy." Giles' casual smile trembles on the edge of smirk. "All before the soul, of course."  
  
Giles sips his drink, poker face never slipping, and for the first time in years, torturing Rupert Giles is a memory that gives Angel almost as much satisfaction as it gave Angelus.  
  
"You've known how Spike felt about Buffy for a long time."  
  
"Ah, yes; I'm quite certain that _Spike_ is in love with Buffy."  
  
Angel stares, fingernails digging into his palms, forcing the demon down.  
  
"Just as certain as I am," Giles continues serenely, "That _William's_ heart is lodged in an entirely different place."  
  
He shocks a laugh out of Angel; low, sharp, bitter.  
  
"That won't end well."  
  
"No," Giles muses, "I rather suspect that it won't."  
  
---------------------------------------

Soft footsteps, a shadow passing in front of the light through the window, and Tara feels the weight of his eyes upon her and opens her own, watching him as he stares down at her, his hands curled into desperate fists at his sides.  
  
It's been a long time since she's seen him like this... utterly raw, all his veneer scraped violently aside, his eyes wide and wild and frightened, his chest hitching in shallow, unnecessary breaths.  
  
Pain transforms Spike's face, gives him a look of such blinding innocence that, in those moments, it is impossible for her to place the word 'evil' anywhere near him.  
  
It is an amazing thing to see. And every time, she hopes she never sees it again.  
  
Their eyes lock, his misery lighting him from within, and the truth of him is almost funny, the reason for the terror she sees etched in his face.  
  
His demon is utterly terrified... of his human.  
  
As well he should be.  
  
Being human _hurts_.  
  
She knows this very well.  
  
"Honey, I'm home," Spike drawls, but his heart isn't in it, trailing off into a whisper.  
  
Like sarcasm could cover the five minutes he's spent staring at her like a trapped animal, the sea of naked emotions he's let play over his face. Like he can hide why he's here, what he wants, what is about to happen to him.  
  
"I'm glad," Tara smiles, reaching up to him.  
  
He refuses to look at her outstretched hand, taking a step back. "Just came to nick a pillow, Pet. Couchin' it tonight... there's a Goldilocks sleepin' in Blondie Bear's bed. Hope we're stocked on lukewarm porridge."  
  
"Spike, don't," Tara sighs, grasping for his hand, pulling him towards her.  
  
"Pet, no... not tonight... I couldn't..."  
  
She locks his eyes with hers; he closes his mouth.  
  
They also have their rituals.  
  
She pulls him down to the mattress, and he doesn't protest further; it's what he has really come for, his feet carrying him into her room with a mind of their own.  
  
She guides his head down to her chest, stroking his hair... and he has been waiting for this, steeling himself with the promise of this to come, knowing this lay at the end of his journey, the reward for making it those last few feet. He's not worthy and he no longer cares; he needs it too badly. He's home, he's safe, he has made it before his wall cracked.  
  
And now, in her arms, he lets himself crumble.  
  
He begins to sob, clinging to her, clutching fistfuls of her t-shirt, her breasts drenched with his tears. She can't number the times they've done this, can't remember when it started, which one of them was the first to stumble across the hallway between their rooms looking for sanctuary.  
  
She murmurs into his hair, rubs his shoulders, and eventually, his shaking stills... raising himself, pressing his forehead to hers, their breath mingling, their lips a centimeter apart, his fingers reaching up to trail her cheekbones.  
  
She feels him startle at the wetness he finds there.  
  
"You're crying too?" he whispers. "What's wrong? You should have told me..."  
  
She threads her fingers through his, strokes his palm with her thumb. "Willow had one of her... _special_ days."  
  
He chuckles a little. Their pooling tears itch her nose. "How many years y'think we're gonna end up like this, love?"  
  
She can't bear to say what she thinks the real answer is. "Until it quits hurting, I guess."  
  
Their eyes meet, and she's caught all over again at how naked, how intimate eye contact with him is... like they've completed a circuit that lets them read each other's minds, like she can see their thoughts flowing in between them.  
  
His fingers still linger at her temple; he moves towards her, unconsciously, a fraction of an inch, almost enough to close the small gap between their lips.  
  
And then he smiles at himself, shakes his head slightly, leans back and chuckles.  
  
"Yeah, well... immortality's a right bitch that way..."  
  
The spell is broken; she grins up at him. "Aw, c'mon, you know you're gonna laugh at us when we're all in Depends playing shuffleboard and you still look twenty-five."  
  
He moves a lock of her hair aside. "I'll take care of you, y'know."  
  
"It's your defining characteristic," she grins.  
  
His eyebrow soars. "Thought that was my overwhelmin' sex appeal?"  
  
"Sure. Right. Sex appeal. Come back when you've grown some boobs."  
  
"Still a demon, y'know. A _little_ respect for the evil, please."  
  
"Fine." She traces his scar with a finger. "You'll take care of us until we all die... in a _very_ scary, evil way."  
  
He hugs her tighter. "Damned straight."  
  
"Like you did with your mother, and Dru, and Dawn, and me..."  
  
"Hey! I'm not a bloody Care Bear, y'know, I cut a swath through continents..."  
  
"Oh, I think you'd make a cute Care Bear. You could be, I dunno, Snarky Bear. With black fur and a leering skull and crossbones on your fuzzy... little... tummy."  
  
She reaches down and tickles his stomach to illustrate. When she learned she could get away with this sort of thing is something she can't remember either.  
  
"One of these days, pet, I'm gonna..."  
  
Tara's eyes twinkle. "Rip off my head one-handed and drink from my brain stem?"  
  
And he grins, touching her chin with a crooked finger. "Remind me to make up some new threats."  
  
She sighs, turning serious. "How bad was it?"  
  
Spike sighs heavily and flops onto his back; Tara follows, ducking underneath his arm to lay her head on his chest.  
  
"_That_ bad?" Tara adds quietly.  
  
"Thought I could handle it," Spike says, his voice low and thick. "Thought nothin' could be worse than that moment I saw her, layin' there, no life in her. This is worse. This is... bloody _obscene_."  
  
Tara hears his voice hitch and runs her hand down his arm.  
  
"Everythin' that made her who she was is _gone_, Tara. All that fire, all that sass, that _spark_ she had... she was so bloody brave, so bloody noble, and they've made her a machine... like all they wanted was the Slayer part of her and didn't want any Buffy muckin' up the mix. And they didn't realize the Buffy was what made her wonderful."  
  
"They?"  
  
"The bloody Wanker's Council. They couldn't find Faith to off her, so they _made_ a new Slayer instead. One that wouldn't defy 'em like Buffy did."  
  
Tara thinks of her father, her mother, the lies to keep her in line. Spike takes her wince for an answer.  
  
"Gets worse, Pet. Had to get her on the plane, right? Couldn't have her all hog-tied for it neither. So Rupes had me _drain_ her."  
  
"Oh my God, Spike... are you okay?"  
  
"Am _I_ okay? Weren't you listening, pet?"  
  
Tara snuggles her head in further. "I guess that explains why you're all warm."  
  
"Ah, love, ah... drinkin' human blood? Vampire? Addiction? You, human? Me all fangy? No chip?" Spike waits, but Tara merely draws a pattern on his collarbone with her fingertips. "This is the bit where you plant your foot in my rear and kick me out of bed if you know what's good for you, pet..."  
  
"I don't mind if you bite me," Tara whispers.  
  
Spike stiffens. "Don't ever say that."  
  
"It's true. I trust you."  
  
Spike reaches out, raises her chin so she meets his eyes. "Tara, what the hell happened to you today?"  
  
"Just a bad visit with Willow. You know how that goes."  
  
He shakes his head slightly. "That's not all."  
  
She ducks her head, breaking that eye contact that feels like a physical attachment, tucking herself into the crook of his arm. "I also had to tell Dawnie about Buffy."  
  
"Ah, love, I'm sorry." Spike pulls her closer, accepting this half-truth; Tara rather suspects he wouldn't have, had he still been looking at her. "How's she taking it?"  
  
"Cried herself to sleep."  
  
She feels him stiffen, feels him start to get up. "She did say she needed some time alone, Spike."  
  
"In the tone of voice where she actually means it?"  
  
"Would I be in here otherwise?"  
  
"Right." He settles back into the mattress, shifts Tara back into her favored spot in his arms. "Spose we'll have a lot to deal with, you n' me."  
  
Tara looks across the darkened room at the small pile of cardboard boxes she has already filled, and does not answer.


End file.
